


Beneath Still Waters

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Creepy, Gen, Horror, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:13:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of creepy/suspenseful stories, some connected, others standing alone. All take place from "A Scandal in Belgravia" onwards, so expect to seem some post-Reichenbach material here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beneath Still Waters

**Author's Note:**

> Who do we really see when we look in the mirror?

“Jesus Christ!”

John dropped the groceries he’d been carrying, his hands immediately flying to his waistband for the weapon that wasn’t there. In the next moment, however, panic gave way to recognition.

“Greg, what are you—… _fuck_ , are you bleeding?”

He’d been surprised to see Lestrade crouched behind Sherlock’s chair in their sitting room, more surprised to see the blood. Confusion temporarily forgotten, he crossed quickly to the DI and took a knee as he began to inspect him. There was a deep gash along the older man’s hairline which, coupled with a steadily streaming nose, turned his face into a bloody mess. The only other injuries he detected were a series of cuts on the back of the man’s hands—and was that glass embedded in them? Eerily, Lestrade remained silent throughout the examination.

“Ah, John. I was just about to text,” came Sherlock’s drawl from the other side of the chair.

John peered around the chair and saw his flatmate standing there with John’s first aid kit in one hand and a bowl with a flannel hanging over the side in the other. He motioned Sherlock forward, raising his hands to accept both.

“What the hell happened? Were you two out on a case or something?” John questioned incredulously. He’d only been gone a few hours.

“Not a case, no. I found him here when I returned from Bart’s about five minutes ago,” Sherlock answered, his gaze boring into their inspector. “He’s not said anything. All I’ve been able to deduce is that he had a fight with his mirror.”

Lestrade made a slight noise at that, twitching suddenly.

“Come on Greg, say something, mate,” John urged him, beginning to clean the wounds. The one along his forehead might need stitches…

“…the mirrors…” Lestrade said at last.

“What about them?” John prompted, readying the antiseptic even as Sherlock perched on his chair like a great bird, leaning over the back to watch the proceedings.

Lestrade looked at him then, causing John to pause in his ministrations. He was alarmed by the look in the other man’s eyes. “John, have you ever…”

He paused, looked away, licked his lips, and drew a deep breath. Looking back, Lestrade seemed to be trying to ignore the weight of Sherlock’s gaze upon him.

“Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror and… looked a little too long?” Lestrade questioned.

“I’m not sure I follow,” John admitted.

Lestrade frowned, seemingly struggling to come up with what he wanted to say. “I mean, if you look in the mirror, and you wind up looking too long, the person you see there… the longer you look, the less you recognize them.”

“Okay, I think I’m familiar with that, yeah. But what’s that got to do with—“

“What did you see, Lestrade?” Sherlock interrupted, dropping from his chair to John’s side in a too-smooth movement.

“I looked too long.”

“I gathered.”

“I hadn’t meant to.”

“No one ever does.”

“Just the eyes. The eyes were… all wrong.”

“They always are.”

“And it was… it was… looking back. It looked back and before I knew it, I had my hand on the mirror and…”

“You’re lucky you still have your eyes,” Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. “So you managed to draw back after taking that lovely wound to the forehead, smashed the mirror to pieces and came here. You’ve never come here after these things.”

“It’s… It’s harder. When you’re alone,” Lestrade admitted, his eyes flickering to his naked ring finger.

“Sorry, what’s going on?” John asked, thoroughly confused as he bandaged Lestrade’s hands.

Sherlock and Lestrade shared a look, having a silent discussion in the span of a few seconds before Lestrade dropped his gaze and Sherlock focused his attention on John.

“There are some things that I investigate, John, that are difficult to explain,” Sherlock began. “It’s a common phenomenon; look at your reflection in the mirror long enough and eventually you begin to lose the ability to recognize the person there. At some point, for some reason, you look away. Something makes you uncomfortable and you look away. Suddenly it feels less like you’re looking and more like you’re being watched.”

“What happens… if you don’t look away?” John asked, too intent on tending to Lestrade’s injuries and too morbidly curious to question what he was hearing.

“Have you ever paused to consider the number of unsolved disappearances in the world, John?”

John hadn’t. And now he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

* * *

Three weeks later, John found himself at a crime scene, standing alongside Lestrade while Sherlock worked. It was a disappearance, as far as anyone could tell. The only clues were the copious amounts of blood in the bathroom and the smashed mirror.

John looked to Lestrade. He noted the dark, despairing look in the older man’s eyes.

“We won’t find her, will we?” he asked.

Lestrade looked to the shards of mirror on the floor, catching his own reflection and quickly looking back to John.

“We never do.”


End file.
